When We Were Gods
by ScarQueen
Summary: A closer look at Characters from the DMC universe and the lands they came from before we ever knew of the name Sparda. Newly added Lucia one shot...
1. Agni

Author's Note: Agni's the name of the god of fire in hinduism. Apt considering he was the flame sword of the two devil arm Agni and Rudra. I broadened the idea a bit, but this is soley Agni-centric drabble of sorts. (talking swords need love too ya know: ) For now it's a one shot, may or may not continue, but that's totally dependent on the muse of ideas and sudden flashes of inspiration. Enjoy!

Hang on a moment...lemme check my savings account...nope still not an owner of the DMC franchise...dang-nab-it, there goes the theme park idea.

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We were as gods, reborn century after century, a new kindle to summon back old fire. And it was the fire I was born from, as elemental as any being of our nature. They worshipped us once, thousands of humans now long dead, their blood ashes. Their bones nothing more than unrecognizable debris, and yes they worshipped me. Fire god they called me. I reveled in their offerings. Old widows whose husband had died, their eyes looking to the curling smoke in the sky as the scent of their flesh permeated the air. It was the death of my strength when they sacrificed themselves, but it was woman flesh, who would complain about the trade? Even then few humans understood the reality of their gods. 

The humans sought life eternal through their ancient Vedic texts, they described me in the beginning as their sacrificial fire. I razed their lands, burning all in my wake, I took as I desired and they worshipped me for it. My name was on their tongues in times of need. These little insects that scurried and bowed before beings so much greater than themselves, they were mine, and I was their god. They would accept few others as their living god. I was a part of their salvation through the long dark night.

Time sweeps by, trickling in through the gears and cogs of this place, carrying with it the scent of a changing world, alive and overrun with the insect 'man' now. Once again, I rekindle the memory of when they first built this tower, when I was summoned from my worshipers in the east to serve a new god. A greater god, one who claimed my people for his own, the memory of my beginnings smothered under the other ideas of a darker god rich in power. It was that same destroyer god who fell victim under the blade of another, a knight, and it was then, I knew regret. Or I thought I did. Now...now...I believe I understand...but my strength is failing me. My strength departed, I fear I'm losing my mind to this prison.

Even before these walls were sealed into place, the air stagnant and unmoving. Before dust came to settle, coating every surface of this place. Evan as I was left here, my wits slowly descending into madness aside my babbling twin, I remember those people. The beauty of their voices as they raised up in worship. It wasn't that Sparda fought for them, it was that he had the cruelty to lock me away from them. Who will purify their sacrifices? Who will they worship? I am a god. I am _their_ god. And yet, even I have fallen. This place is so quite, save for the sounds of demons and my brother's incoherent babbling.

Ages stream by, one after another, the sounds of man slowly fade away, and I am left with nothing but a small room and the hope that somewhere, beyond these walls, my people praise still. That they sing still. Is it too much to hope they sing my name? 'Agni. Agni.' They called to me, burning their sacrifices under the command of another. 'Agni!' In giving me a name, they strengthened me, formed me. They recreated me in way no other demon has. Agni. I am Agni. I am the purifying fire of life. I am a demon of fire and I consume all. I devour, break, and tear. I am a demon god. Agni. Agni. My people, I consume your flesh to maintain the strength you're human name has given me. And now we are parted. My people, my people, I hunger. Though I was born of hell, never did I truly grasp it's design until now


	2. Lady

Okay, so i updated, this idea has been bouncing around in my head ever since i saw Kill Bill. This chappie goes out to Kikoken, it would't exist with out her review. Garnering legal hiney protection for a moment here: Nancy Sinatra owns the song, i own the fic, and Capcom owns the hottest half demon twins i've ever laid eyes on. T.T Life can be unfair. Thanks to the muses of sudden inspiration, hopefully they'll dictate something a little bit up beat next time.

drabble takes place post temingru.

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Bang Bang I shot you down 

Bang bang you hit the ground

Bang bang that awful sound

Bang Bang my baby shot me down

Now he's gone I don't know why

And till this day sometimes I cry

He didn't even say good bye

He didn't take the time to lie

'Why? Is one woman really worth that much?' he'd glared at her then, the mask pulled away to reveal the ugliness she'd known had been there the entire time. Bang Bang, and he'd been dead at her feet. Her father, her only father in this life, and she had put the bullets-half a remaining clip-into his goddamning face. Not all demons were bullet proof. Humans were even less so.

Nancy Sinatra sang the melancholy tune, her voice carrying over the static of car's crappy fm/am radio. Bang, Bang. It was difficult to believe the woman's cool voice could compete with the soaring desert temperatures. The junker she was driving didn't even have ac. And still the song was enough to send a chill down her spine. Bang Bang, my baby shot me down. Ha. Her father had never used pet names. She wasn't her daddy's baby, she was Mary, her mother's daughter. Nothing more in the eyes of the world, and certainly nothing less.

In the seat next to her the old revolver sat basking the steady shaft of sunlight. It was the gun she'd trained with after her mother had passed on, it was the gun she killed demons with. It was almost unperceivable against the weapon's dark metallic shine, but her father's blood still coated the muzzle of it, the splotches of rusted red looked brown in the sun light. It was a disgrace, letting that monster's defiled blood coat her weapon. With her luck, it'd never come off if she didn't remove it soon.

The car rocked along the uneven gravel road, bottoming out occasionally. It was a good ten minutes to the missionary yet. She was itching to get the hell out of her mobile oven. Reaching over she turned the radio off as the burnt out shell of the missionary came into view. The place where her mother lay in the ground along with so many others she had known. The building itself was built on a cliff near the ocean. The rhythmic pulse of waves always reminded her of the time they had lost. Of the time that had been taken away from her. Everything had started here, next to the salty tempest Mistress, her salty body kept everything hidden. The secrets she had absorbed, watching the missionary dance in flames on it's cliff that night, and she never told a soul.

There hadn't been much left over after the demon had ravaged her mother's body. It had taken them some hours to fish little Mary out from the well she was still hiding in. The police had collected the bits and pieces, put out the smoking remains of the building, bagged the pieces of her mother for evidence, and called it an attack of rampaging animal. Some of the locals even when as far to blame it on the myth of 'el Diablo azul'. Literally it translated in 'the blue devil'. Truly the crime scene was horrific. Well they were only half right, she thought wryly, there had been a devil in blue. Mostly it was her old man's fault. It had been his inability to love. To understand. He never understood, but that didn't matter. She'd made the bastard pay dead to rights for what he'd done. Handing over his own flesh and blood for power. A demon's power. Even now it made her lip curl and her nose wrinkle with disgust.

Jerking the wheel to the side, the car came to a halt before the abandon ruins of the monastery. Time and weather had failed to completely erase the scorch marks created by unnatural, hellish heat. Nor had it faded the long jagged claw marks that marred the building's walls. Reaching for the revolver laying in the seat, Lady got out of the rental death trap. Until the men at the garage fixed her bike, she was stuck with the junk. The dark shades hide the multi-tinted irises as she took in the lonely, over grown graveyard. Slamming the door, she tucked the revolver into her belt, boots grinding against the ground.

God it was hot. Her tongue was sticking to the top of her mouth, dry as cotton. She had almost forgotten how hot it could get out here, as if the car hadn't been bad enough. Licking chapped lips, she made her way out to the desolate graveyard. The place was smaller than she recalled. More gritty, it seemed too desolate and unloved than she remembered. The garden the nun's had planted went up with the monastery, leaving the place drier for it. With enough time, this place had become nothing more than a shadow of the life it had once possessed. Her father had killed the memory of this place as much as he had killed her mother. After all that had come to pass, the ocean could reclaim this place, but not until she did what she came here to do.

The headstone was unmarked save for the words 'Mother RIP'. There was no birth date, no death date. The former she never knew and the latter she would never forget. The way her mother's eyes had looked, as she watched the hiding place she'd stored her baby away at. Even as the demon tore her flesh, her father laughing insanely, Kalina hadn't let Arkum know where her daughter lay hidden, not more than several feet away, at the bottom of the monastery's well. Perhaps the safest place to be in the midst of a fire. Her mother had protected her, and in return, she'd killed the man who had destroyed her mother. The man who had tore her life apart at the seams. And now that bastard's blood coated her gun's muzzle.

Kneeling, Lady began to dig. The dust clung to the white sleeves of her blouse and to the bottom of her jeans. When she was done a small hole lay between her and her mother's headstone. Dropping the gun, she buried the weapon. Now her father's blood lay over the remains of her mother. Bang, Bang, baby shot you down, you fucking bastard. So why had she given in? Now he's gone, I don't know why, and still sometimes at night I cry. Lady gritted her teeth, blinking back moisture. Damn that song. Bang Bang, you hit the ground, bang bang, that awful sound. He wasn't a father. He didn't deserve to be called a father. He had no more of a soul than a demon did. Why had she cried?

"You can ask her why yourself," Lady murmured to the gun and memories it held, rising, "assuming you can claw your miserable way out of hell." Brushing the dust from her jeans, Lady got back in the car. It was a long way back to town. She drove the rest of the way in silence.


	3. Nevan

Okay, Nevan's turn. I tried to go for 'unrequited love' kinda thing. T.T Not quite sure if i managed that, but this is what resulted from that effort. I figured I might as well try to make my way around the world with this fic, seeing as Agni and Rudra were from India, and Mary was visiting Mexico... I'll shut up. You enjoy.

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She remembered how his blood had laid, splattered across marble stone, as artistic as only a demon could manage. She had loved, once, in her life. When her lover died, something inside had gone with the man. Mortal as he had been, she hardly understood the infatuation herself. She hadn't cared when Sparda separated the demon world from the human realm. Not at first anyways. Her lover was newly dead as the tower shrunk, nothing more than a small lump of it's former glory. She hadn't blamed Sparda, not really. Not with her loss so fresh. It would take eons of loneliness, the absence of touch, of the lustful power she based her existence so thoroughly on, before she would come to resent the demon. 

Just looking at her, you know she gloried at her chosen profession.

Self-proclaimed and titled 'The World's Best Fuck.' Well hell, why not? Her smirk followed men, it was like magic, the way they lingered at doorway of the joint, glancing discreetly over their shoulder for one more peek. And Nevan she would just smirk, sly laughter rippling from her tongue, as if to say 'Well c'mon then sugar.'

There was no question that Nevan was a whore the minute she stepped into the building, but you could tell she _enjoyed_ it. Hell she was masterpiece when it came to fucking. She had everything down to an art. If you wanted a hard fuck, she'd chuckle, take the poor bastard's hand and money, then lead him up to the rooms upstairs. (You know, the ones the law doesn't know about.) You'd see the same poor smuck stumbling downstairs three hours latter looking like he was lost. I always get a kick out of Nevan's 'victims' as we call them. The few she does take upstairs always come back for more, but Nevan, she only screws them once. I asked her why once, she'd make a hell'uva lot of money on the side if she did take'em back for another screw or two. Nevan had stared at me with her hooded eyes, her long red hair just covering those jutting round breasts that made men weak in the knees.

'Well sugar,' she crooned, her demur eyes sliding over the faces of the bar. (Nevan never really spoke, or at least it never seemed like she did. She always had this crooning 'come hither' quality to her voice.) 'My mama taught me about girls who sleep around.' Of course the entire bar just laughed. Nevan always had the center of attention when she was in the room. It was magic, I tell you. Every man wanted her to look in their direction, wanted to touch her, wanted to fuck her and keep her for their own, and every woman was in love with her, even the strait ones. Me? Nah, it wasn't anything like that. Not for me anyways. I was just the bartender.

The bar had laughed, those foolish mortals. Had anyone thought to ask-had any of these mortals known what she was-who her favorite mortal was, well, then they would have had an answer worth repeating. She had long forgotten the number of men and woman she had taken into her embrace. Each one, she felt nothing for, she craved their living energy, nothing more. No, that wasn't the truth. It was him she remembered when they came to her. She longed for the one who had made her swoon with pleasure. Her first. No girl, demon or human, ever forgot her first.

The greeks were high into their scorn of woman, their higher thinking of science and philosophy, and of the stars when she'd arrived on the scene. They still worshipped their gods then. It was never said, no matter how innovative the Greeks, that they were not devout. She found the love of her life at the grotto near the well. He was filthy when she first laid eyes upon him. He had stared at her, as if he were seeing something. A vision of goddess Selen, he'd latter told her. Of course she was used to that kind of look. Men and demons alike had been giving them to her since the day of her birth. She still did not understand the whim that graced her at that time. The one that urged her to take the filthy man-youth actually, a scholarly runaway, something unheard of in the Greek world-and clean him, and feed him, and cloth him. When he was clean, he was a beautiful boy. One more beautiful than most humans were.

When night fell, he wouldn't let her seduce him.

It was the first time, in her limited experience, a man had refused her body. Refused her offer. Rejected her. Had been capable of such a feat. Even the occasional effeminate would succumb to her touch, but not this man. This scholar run away. He would eat at her side, watched as she flirted and fucked various men of wealthy families, he bath her afterwards, dried her hair decorating it with white lilies, but he would not let her touch him. Would not let her caress his soft cheek, nor his supple body, would not let her lay with him. It grew to the point were she found it maddening, but as a lady she could scarcely demand what she wanted from him. Even if she had, he still would have denied her what she craved. All in all he never left. Never tried to flee, even after he learned of what she was. He stayed. And together they stayed at her villa, side by side. Things did not change for three long years.

Had those mortals asked, she would have told them those three years were the best of her considerable life. His name had been Adrian. It happened suddenly, as most lustful moments do. It had been raining, she could still feel the cool air against her exposed skin. Still smell the scent of him as she cradled him in her arms. After that night he became her star, her moon, her Apollo. Adrian, he said, his lips trembling slightly in the moonlight, he said his name was Adrian.

Very few demons are with out enemies. A succubus who has spurned many offers for lovers must be additionally careful. She knew this now, what she hadn't know then. Youth was foolish, young love was blind. Her Adrian. His dark curly hair had been soaked with his own blood. Those dark eyes that once had seen right through her, to the shell of her soul, now glazed and unseeing. The dais that had been their passionate bed was scorched with long blade knives. It could have been many, many demons, and although she suspected only a few.

She never sought revenge. Instead she left Europa and the Great Empire, left the mortal world. Let her love rot and decay both in the ground and in her soul. It was the last time she had loved. Fucked, no, but loved? She would never forget her soft Adrian. 'Like I said, I've never seen her fuck'em more than once,' the whisper floated through the loud strip club to her ear. Only once would she hold them in a tender embrace, carving her name into their souls as she sipped away their vitality. They never felt the way he did. Never felt how they should. But there were times. She could still feel his touch.

She couldn't go with out her substance. He had known that somehow, without her ever telling him. He had forgiven her when she went to others for her need and in turn became her sole source of nourishment. With out the essence that made her what she was, she was weak. With Adrain, she was in love and loved in return.

Sometimes he came in the form of a different man, and she'd sink her teeth into his shoulder, eliciting a moan. Delighting in the feel of his soul so close to her own, remembering the smell of rain. Sometimes he'd come to her as a girl, and then she'd take her, take the memory of Adrian, and she hold onto him, and stroke his feeble trembling arms as he wept in pleasure. He would always return to her, she knew that now. In different people, in different souls, but she would always recognize him. And for his part, he would always seek her out.

The longest she'd ever gone without him had been her time spent inside the tower.

But her soft greek boy had waited for her. Come to her as a half demon, the same spawn of that who had separated them. And though Adrian was no fighter like this sharp spiky boy before her, she could feel him there. The evanescent touch of his soul was lurking behind two crystalline blue eyes, teasing her with his presence as he had for three long years. Yes it was her soft cheeked lover and yes, she would murder Sparda's offspring for the sin of his father. For the sin trapping her here, away from her lover, away from her source of being. Her fountain of existence. She vowed, silently to herself, as she studied this strange demon man before her, they would never be separated again.


	4. Eva

Somewhat lengthy Author's note (please read!): Well now, Welcome back to the demonic world tour, today we're making a stop in Germany. (Yes this one shot is about when Eva met Sparda. Sad thing is, i don't know if i quite believe in love at first sight any more.) One shot goes out to Paw-kay Munchy Gawd. XD (Have a nice study break!) A couple notes accompany this piece that you definitely want to read.

First: there are a few vocabulary words you might want to know, they may help clarify some of the details in this one-shot. I've posted them at the bottom of this piece.

Second: For those time and book story plot sticklers, this may not be your cup of tea, so considered yourself warned. There are also a few crossovers in this one shot, mentioned chiefly in passing. So take it for what it's worth.

Third: I set this story during WW2 on purpose. (aka I used me imagination and this is what it crapped out) This one shot was originally supposed to be the beginning of an Eva/Sparda fic, but I just couldn't get into it. sighs. Someday maybe. Also, I'm not trying to bash anyone with this fic, if you're offended by it in any way, please say as much along with some ideas you have for revisions.

The last thing to mention: a Harry Potter class-yes a class name-makes a camo in this one shot as well. XD Why the hell not, eh? I got just about everything else in here… Well onwards!

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Grinding her way through the dissipating crowd a nervous trickle of sweat wound its way down her back as she efficiently ignored the twisting cold intrusions into her gut. The phrase she'd heard that day above the rhythmic, bombarding footsteps were enough to make the lump in her stomach harden into a firm stone-like mass. With that same phrase ringing in her ears over and over again mixing into her tumultuous thoughts, Frau Amelia Eva Wulfenstien turned onto the darkened ally, the red and black dress hem sweeping across the worn cement. The allyway was perhaps the worst haunted street of the city. The slivering cold in her gut was more difficult to ignore here than anywhere else, and quite often she found herself with a slight headache after walking through it. Being a telepath wasn't everything it was cracked up to be.

Carefully she picked her way across the broken down street. She was donning the colors that supported the beliefs of a Führer she had never supported to begin with. Rather contrary to the supposition of belief, she had begun, in fact, to loath the mad man with a passion.

This was bad. This was very bad. If the third Reich-more importantly-Hitler's Gestapo or Sicherheitsdienst got their bloody hands on art magickal it was over for the allies, never mind the millions the Führer had locked up in the camps. She didn't even want to begin to think about what a mass 'kill all' spell would mean for the war efforts of the Allies. Brimstone already had an armful of the rumors supporting the formation of a Gegengheist Gruppe, the would-be Nazi world police of all things that went unmentioned in polite society. It would seem the GGG, as she had dubbed it, had the same agenda as the Fuhrer: rid the world of everything not useful or unsupportive of the Nazi party and its leader. With this latest public revelation, the fifth with in the month, Frau Eva believed the secluded shady, defense of the dark arts branch of the English government would have enough evidence for Parliament to support the deployment of any agents.

And god, she needed the help. Yup, she was looking things in the mouth alright. The SS was already following the trail of her scent. No doubt they'd discovered her original papers and the body they belonged to. Or rather they had discovered a body with missing the papers and her original papers, there hadn't been enough time to burn them properly. The body's papers had become her pseudo Nazi loyalist 'husband', currently gone fighting for the Führer's dreams. It was unusual for a young 'wife' to be left so alone, but in the middle of a war there were many young husbandless wives. All the same, it was time for the useful Frau Amelia Wulfenstien to make a sudden visit to an uncle in the northern most regions of the great German Empire and never return. Good riddance, she was getting tired of playing the role of a simpering mouse. Her choice in clothing was horrendous. The Brimstone Society needed her report. It had been her earlier reports that had alerted the English government to the Nazi's interests in the art magickal. This latest report could very well be the last push Parliament needed to be drawn into acting.

Eva came to a halt, clutching the black shawl around her shoulders. The cold silvering thing took hold of her stomach once again, warning her perhaps, or simply testing her. Despite the cool of the evening, she could feel the eyes watching her. The feel of them made her nervous. She'd received word from Brimstone her exit vista would be coming in the form of a field agent by the name of Teufel. She knew him by reputation only, but a colleague was a colleague in her line of work she supposed. She was acutely aware that the SS must be dangerously close to her if they were sending another agent to assist her back to England. A hand went to the blade tucked in the hem of her dress. Little good it would do against several SS agents, but it was all she had. A few men in uniforms weren't enough to scare Eva. It was the men in GGG uniforms that unnerved her. She still remembered the dead look in their once human eyes as Hitler had unveiled them to the crowd.

Coming out of the ally, Eva quickened her pace, hurrying down the street. It was getting dark out. Not a good thing for a Frau to be caught outside at night. Not a good thing for a secret agent to be outside at night. Her rooms were only a few blocks away, along with the smuggled English irons she coveted above all else. Why in god's name hadn't she brought her papa's twin pistols with her? With the SS so close to her heels, stupid. Her hand tightened around the knife hilt.

There were two of them behind her. Light shone out from ale houses as Eva pulled the shawl up to her ears, her mind racing. She had to get her report to Brimstone. It might mean a world of a difference in the war effort. This agent Tuefel had better be a devil if he thought he'd be able to smuggle her back to England with the SS already branding her as a wanted criminal. How would she recognize an agent she had never laid eyes on? Eva suppress a minute groan. Brimstone was losing it's touch. What was with that name anyways? Tuefel? Devil? Seeing as he hadn't arrived yet, Eva was beginning to assume help was never coming.

The footsteps were nearing. Glancing up from the ground, Eva came from a halt, taking in the sight a ways down the ally. Two Gestapo-Damn! They were on to her already!-casually stalking towards her, the perfect Nazi soldiers. They both had blond hair-as did she-but their red arm bands and the thick black lines of the swastika were brazen in the chilly night air. Chancing a quick glance over her shoulder eye sized up her chances. Four Gestapo for one woman with a knife was not good odds. Even if the knife was semi-enchanted.

Abruptly, Eva turned, following yet another twisting alleyway of the city had to offer. She would have pray for safe delivery if she hadn't given up prayer. The ally way was just one of the many escape routes Eva had formulated during her brief stay in the motherland. It would lead her directly to the contact point. It was far too early for Tuefel to be there, but at this point, it was all she had. It was a long shot, but he might be there. And with out her papa's irons, she'd be lucky to make it down the block. The prospect of spending time in a camp was about as appealing as dying.

Behind her the Gestapos converged, stilling following her. By her calculations, she should have had at least two more days to disappear. Had she been sold out? Had agent Tuefel been caught? Bribed? What good would it do to reach the contact point with no contact to be reached? Again Eva drew up short. Behind her, a Gestapo boy snickered, and she knew why.

She was surrounded. Caught in an ally way like a rat. Silently, Eva glanced between the two groups, slowly easing herself back. There was still a card she could play, before drawing her blade. Rough, brick wall prickled at her back, preventing her from backing up further. If this worked, she might just try her hand in the pictures at Hollywood.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Eva demanded. Her German was fluent; many years of practice would have made it so. "I am German! I support the Führer! What do you want?" It was an effort to keep the disgust from her voice. The odds were not in her favor tonight. 8 to 1, she was outnumbered. The best she could do was fend them off until-if she was lucky-one of them shot her fatally enough to kill her. If she wasn't lucky, she'd be interrogated and then shot.

"I do not think you are as German as you claim to be Frau," a sandy haired boy responded, laughing. He was nothing more than a boy, two years her junior, and yet he was high in SS ranks. The SS had found her. A cold twisting took hold of her gut. Pointedly Eva pushed away the intruding premonition. As a telepath with an open link, she had no desire so see the last moments of so many others who had died in this ally way. It was more difficult that it usually was to block this particular vision.

"I'd beg to differ," Eva said calmly. A pulsing had begun in her temple. How could a simple faded memory be so difficult to block? Were these Gestapo part of the GGG? "I am German. Would you like to see my papers?" She held them out for inspection. They were genuine papers. An Amelia Wulfenstien had exited, roughly fifty years ago.

"You are an English spy," leader Gestapo told her, knocking her papers to the ground. She'd been sold out? Eva brought a hand to her nose. It was bleeding. Damn and damn again! This was no time for a vision. She could feel her vision reeling. Only the wall at her back kept her from falling to the ground. The Gestapo watched her, unconcerned.

"I will not be the one to die tonight, good son," Eva commented softly. Laughing they closed in on her. Faint, Eva clutched her knife. So this was it? She was going to die in a back alleyway?

Shadow rippled at the edge of her vision. She thought, perhaps, it would be a good thing not to remember what they would do to her before dragging her to SS HQ to be processed like so many others. The curse of being a female agent, it was a nothing more but a grim joke at Brimstone. It was all too real in the field.

Panting, Eva slowly began to slide to the ground as the premonition over took her against her will. Fragments of her vision were red and blue, she could hear laughter, little children laughing. Grown men, laughing, the Gestapo laughing. The dogs. She growled. The laughter stopped. The Gestapo, the boys, they were yelling now. Angrily accusing someone of something. A Traitor? What? With a final push, Eva surfaced from the swirling vision, away from the two identical faces staring up at her.

Blood splatter flung across her dress. Gasping for air, Eva staggered to her feet, face going pale. Was this still part of the vision? The getsapo lay dead on the ally floor. The blood was everywhere. Eva fought back a gag, her eyes trailing to the figure in the middle of it all. She was no stranger to violence, but that fact did not stop her from become ill at the sight of it.

Blackness shuddered as he rose, for a moment Eva envisioned wings in his moonlit shadow. A broad back, light glinted off snow white hair, a sword at his hand. Agent Tuefel? It couldn't be, could it? He turned to her. The dark jacket swept over the bodies of those he had slain. The knife was in her hand, it's blade edge visible enough for him to draw up short. Blue eyes regarded her impassively for a moment. Gazing back into them, she didn't dare blink, lest she be lost in the endless black of the pupils. They seemed to glow with an inner light. Mind still reeling from the aggressive vision, Eva fumbled for the contact phrase, pushing herself to her feet.

"I thank you sir," her voice was far calmer than she felt.

"I'd hope your information was worth their lives," he responded in English, glancing over to his shoulder to the bodies that lay behind him. He did not bother to wipe the blood from his blade before placing it in the sheath. Was he a clever Nazi ploy or truly the agent Brimstone had sent to aid her? Eva considered her words carefully before speaking next.

"Are you the one brother Brim sent?" There was only one answer she would accept to that question. Brother Brim was a common code for the Brimstone Society all agents used while in the field. If it were not the correct answer, she was in another pickle of a situation.

"Count Sparda Von Tuefel," he inclined his head ever so slightly, the moonlight glinting off the silver frames perched on his nose as he studied her. He certainly looked the part of the noble blood, but Sparda? What nationality was that rooted in? "And I presume you are agent Eve?"

"Eva," she corrected him, dryly. When would that joke die? Even in a foreign country under the most unusual of circumstances, the nick name followed her. "Eve was rather something of a joke. Brother Brim so does enjoy his sense of humor."

"Very well Eva," he offered, his arm. "Shall we continue our conversation elsewhere?" Of course, Tuefel would want to known her information. Should she trust him? Was he really her contact?

"As you wish Sir Tuefel," Eva responded, putting her knife away. There was something different about Agent Tuefel, but then, many of Brimstone's agents were unusual if not entirely human. Well, better the devil she recognized than Hitler's interment camps. Skirting the dead bodies, Count Sparda led her from the ally way. There was a lot of work to be done before their feet would land safely on English territory.

The rest, in time, became history.

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As promised, vocabulary words...if they aren't explicative enough, say so, I will make revisions.

_The Third Reich_-Nazi Germany

_Gestapo_-part of the SS in Nazi Germany, they were the 'secret police' that took care of political activists and all the millions of others Hitler deemed as 'undesirable' for his Aryan blooded empire

_Sicherheitsdienst_-a branch of the SS (yes during Nazi Germany) equivalent to the US Office of Homeland Security. (aka the guys that make sure our nation is secure from any further outside threats of terrorism, wars, plagues, etc. only they worked for Hitler)

_The Brimstone Society_-an underground organization dealing with mainly with the Game BloodRayne. The Brimstone Society is a shady organization that deals with the paranormal. Needless to say, I'm making a crossosver with this organization. It's so covert, british, and readily made, I couldn't resist.

_Gegengheist Gruppe_-another BloodRayne Crossover, literally translates into 'Anti-Ghost Group'

_Tuefel_-roughly translates into 'devil' or so I was told, I'm not very big on the German language, so if anyone has any corrections for the word and it's use in the story's context, by all means, let me know.


	5. Cerberus

Study Break! Welcome to Antarctica, door way to hell!! Meh, Echidna and Typhon are borrowed from Greek legend and, believe it or not, they are Cerberious's spawn. (Yeah, scary thought.) ...This one's a little uninspired...midterms have eaten my brains, so i hold the right to edit this at a latter date.

* * *

He hadn't whimpered, he was no dog to do so, even as the heavy flail came down again again, until even he had lost track of how many times the sudden sting scorched across his back. The snow crunched underfoot, protesting at the sudden compression. Blue eyes flickered in the dark, electric and reflective as the falling snow against the moon's iridescent waves. Quiet stones whistled with the winds, the ancient statues of cherubic angels faceless from both time's erosion and the night's fall. He found them almost as hideous as the withered stone gargoyles that guarded the entrance to this place. Almost as pathetic in their eternal quest to guide the lost souls they were erected in monument to. 

He hated this place. It wasn't because he feared it. Fear simply wasn't the issue, because there was very little-if any thing-that scared him. He just simply didn't care for the place. It was that simple. Not fear, no his hatred-or rather-disgust of this place was more a thing of quiet understanding.

The metal chains banged against his legs, seeking to pull him down, as he pushed on through the drifting flurries. The wide arching gates lay ahead of him, the ends to a means of his existence, or so it would seem. There were others who solidly believed in the old proverb about old dogs and new tricks. The scorches on his back had long since healed, but he was of three minds about that. The fact he was in accord with him self about this place at all was something of an unusual occurrence.

Stumbling he nearly fell to his knees. Were his wounds still fresh he would not have risen. It was of his breed to be loyal, but even blind dogs could bite. Raising his chin, he saw the gates still waited as did years and years of obligations. Rising he lurched on ward, unwell yet firm in his contract to those who held his leash.

The moon had barely traversed the starless sky-who ever heard of stars in hell? They were a think of hope, though he though he might like to see them one day, though he wasn't sure if that was what he really thought or not. Sighing, he drew closer to the gate. The Cyclops waited, thick gnarled chains in hand, leering too the ugly bastard.

The mental shackles clicked together with resounding finality. And as the cold restraints circled his deadened flesh he couldn't help but wonder what the pups were up to. Echidna and Typhon were sure to raise havoc until the master ordered their subsequent destruction. A part of him already mourned his loss, the other part was indifferent, obscenely dedicated to his master even now as the Cyclops left, snickering. The laughter made him want to snap femurs and lap up the bone marrow.

The wind blew again, carrying the finality of his sentence with it. Raising his voices to the sky, Cerberus howled, screaming to the sky. It was his only freedom left, for now. There were masters and then there were masters. He could wait, abiding his punishment. Rumor had it the emperor was at hand, that he was to rise soon. When that time came, he would find himself a demon's best friend and then some in his servant so long as the leash was loosed. It was only a matter of time, of time and patience. He would run free again. Until then, the rotting stone angels would have a new member in their wilted garden.


	6. Lucia

Okay, tackling another DMC universe character. I don't know what happened, but I think I had a 'Lucia' brain fart…yes, this is a serious look at the worst DMC game and its leading heroine character, feather brained Lucia. On the world tour map, I decided that Lucia wasn't really anywhere permanent, so she's en rout to somewhere…on a train, I guess…Hell let's say she's in Europe, on a train. So, for all you lost little copies out there, here's a fragment of Lucia's story.

**Lucia**

Mother hen with her little chicks. The fierce one with eagle eyes. Her nails, when not painted over were a yellowish color. They were harder than porcelain though softer than cement, if that was a combination that warranted any consolation. She'd been able to gouge holes through a chalk board once, the screaming sound of slate was something her ears were still trying to forget. If left to their own, her nails became harder-hard enough to scratch cement. They curved as well, similar to a sloth's coiled scimitars but different yet. They were curved not in a useful way-they'd puncture her palms if left unattended for too long. No, they were curved in a feral primal way, gnarled hooks that could scalp and score delicate human flesh mistakenly. Right now they were painted a deep purple color and filed down to a barely visible shape in the same style most humans wore their nails. She hated to look at her hands any more than she had to.

Leaning forward Lucia gently touched the mirror, tracing her dark lips with index and middle fingers on the reflective glass. Green eyes flickered over every aspect, attribute and flaw, taking in the full picture. Her hair smelled of fresh die, the bitter stench carrying to her nose, making it wrinkle in disgust. Black dyed bangs falling into one eye, lips painted over into a saucy non-existent smirk that lingered.

Leaning back, her hands found their way to the color of her jacket, smoothing the collar down, buttoning buttons, striating sleeves, hiding anything to suggest there was an individual. The black pants-though not the skin tight ones of her sistren, fell in breezy folds over her black business boots. Her maker had shaped her body well enough, he'd had years to envision his creations, tearing out the aspects he wanted from magazines and patchworking the images together with what he combinations of raw DNA he'd had at hand. Eyes from one woman, an arm from another, hair from another, and if there were flaws with the product, black was always an ally, hiding anything to suggest a difference. Black reduced and minimized, taxing desired attributes and highlighting them to overshadow the slight crippling faults.

It was a perfect copy machine. One after another perfecting and synthesizing and fashioning more corrections in order to further refine perfection, he had built an army with miniscule flaws. And through these means, the sistren was born. Lucia exhaled deeply, bobbing her head to the left and then to the right, cracking joints in an attempt to expel the stress knotting the space between her shoulder blades. For a moment, out of sheer wariness, she closed her eyes.

Flame red hair, freakish human eyes. Perfection or anomaly? Copy number ten of god knew how many. Had he used every letter in the alphabet before switching over to numbers, figuring it would be easy to work with a periodical system that was infinite? An army of flawed perfection and lucky number 10 was as flawed as only inbreeding could lead to. It was every manic pig's dream, a disposable army-brothel willing and ready to do one's bidding. Was it too much synthesized bird DNA? Was it the fact that the bastard had raped generation after generation of his 'perfect' copies, impregnating each with his 'blessed seed'? Was it the fact that, as she entered this world, one too many copies had died? Had one too many of the sistren held their silence as another voice of the morning chorus was forever removed from the violent mixture of harmonious servitude and melodious-if not mundane-exploitation? Was that why…in the sea, not the air had she been found and reborn…and had there been a rebellion…she didn't want to think that the blood of her sistren stretched so far into her past as to stain her hands as an infant as well as it did now.

And who was the source of it all anyways? Who was the mother hen? Was it one of the sistren who had born her? Some sistren who had flirted with something more interesting than the godlike image of her 'father'? Or had Arious simply used DNA from some homeowner's souped-up pet demon, Mr. Jingles the cockatoo? Or was there something more than that? Of course there was something more than that, but what? Was each copy a layer of something new? Was it the perfection of the same archetype? Or was it simply the perfection of the original, descending down a line of perfect failures until it reached a perfect anomaly? If so, how had perfection created a perfect anomaly then? She snorted, disgusted. Really what is perfection? And if there was anything close to perfection in this world, Arius had been nothing more than the polar opposite of it.

Opening her eyes, Lucia stared at the water stained mirror watching the flat expressionless face that glared back at her. Had each of the sistren merely been a slice of Arious? His form and face, his ideal of perfection, created for nothing more than a chauvinistic desire of a living breathing mirror of oneself in the opposite sex? Could there have been anyone more in love with themselves?

Eyes slitted, Lucia clenched a hand. A stranger, a lie, looked back at her from the mirror, as furious if not more so at the pathetic lie and platter existence had served up. Leaning forward once again, her hands squeezed the sink ledge. The white porcelain basin was still tinged black and littered with the worm like tendrils of dead hair. One hand went to the back of her hair, fluffing the shortened, drying spikes there. Dropping her hand, Lucia gave the mirror a moment more. Knuckles cracking, she thrust a fist forward. The epitome of perfection crackled, shattering and tinkling as it gracelessly fell into the sink to join the dye and hair trimmings.

Turning, her hand found the doorknob, throwing open the bathroom door. Light flooded the small cubical that passed as a bathroom. Passengers subconsciously shifted their attention away from her as she strode down the main walk way of the train, as defiant as she was self-loathing. Behind her, the door slammed shut, leaving the dye and glass and hair slivers to molder together. Meanwhile the little chick took her seat, patient enough to wait for her chance.


End file.
